


I've Got You

by caffeinefire



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinefire/pseuds/caffeinefire
Summary: Aziraphale felt the change in the air, a burst of power and a whiff of ozone. He spun, and jumped when he came face to face with Gabriel leering cheerfully over his right shoulder.“Aziraphale!” he smiled as if greeting an old friend, then clapped his hands together loudly, so close it made Aziraphale flinch. “You’re early, so glad you could make it.” He began to walk around him, admiring the circle beneath his feet, careful not to cross it. It posed no real danger to him, it had already been activated, but crossing the bounds of an active circle was never a fun experience.“Gabriel,” his voice wavered despite his best efforts. “What is the meaning of this?”------------------------Hellfire didn't work, but Heaven has one more idea. And this time, they're going to force Crowley to watch.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 668





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale tugged his gloves down tighter, then knocked resolutely on the door of the terrace house. The wind was picking up, and he resisted the urge to stamp his feet and rub his hands together. He wasn’t even particularly cold. He didn’t really _get _cold, unless he was especially drained. The heat of holy power spun within him, surrounding the core of himself, glowing with pure potential. However, humanity was contagious, like yawns, like laughter, like one good turn to another, and thousands of years had instilled him with many small habits.

So, even though the swirling snow mostly ignored him, and the cold couldn’t hold a candle to the warmth of his grace, Aziraphale found himself turning up his collar and pulling his coat around him tighter. He was moments from knocking again when he heard the click of a latch. The door swung inward hesitantly, leaving just enough space for Aziraphale to see half of the man’s face. It had been a year or so since they’d last met (Aziraphale hadn’t been much in the mood for anyone’s company but Crowley’s since all the stress of a nearly-ended world), but Decker appeared much older than he remembered, with dark under eyes, and a pale, peaked look to his face.

Aziraphale frowned in concern, doing some quick math in his head. He should only be… early fifties? That wasn’t that old. Right? Yes. It was certainly old enough to explain the wrinkles and the hair, but the tired, nauseous look was before its time.

“Mr. Fell,” Decker greeted him quietly, pulling the door open a little wider. “I… Well to be honest I was hoping you wouldn’t come.”

“I was certainly surprised to receive your letter, Mr. Decker. Can I ask why the change of heart? After all this time?”

The man simply opened the door wider and gestured him inside, hand visibly shaking. Aziraphale’s stomach twisted slightly as he walked through the door and out of the cold. He hadn’t really thought about _why _the old book collector had changed his mind so suddenly. If Decker had fallen on hard times, or was ill... Well, something just didn’t feel right about the whole situation.

“If…,” Aziraphale started hesitantly, squeezing his hands nervously in front of him as Decker led him further into the house. “Well, if this decision was made out of necessity or in haste, I would hate to take advantage. Perhaps we can work something out…” Aziraphale trailed off as he turned the corner into the library. The hallway opened up into a circular room, whose ceiling was a full story higher than it should have been, the second floor of this section having been removed to make room for row after row of inset bookshelves, leaving only a small walkway that circled the room halfway up, with a second doorway on that floor leading to it. There was no furniture, only two rolling ladders set into tracks around the wall, one on the ground floor and one on the mezzanine.

Aziraphale walked slowly toward the far end of the room, eyes wide at the towering shelves around him.

He’d been trying to get at Mr. Decker’s collection for some time, and Decker at his own. Over the past couple of decades, he’d tried nearly every method he could think of to get his hands on the books, and had begrudgingly come to admire the man’s fortitude.

They’d even gotten coffee on occasion. Aziraphale had come to regard him as something of a colleague, someone with whom to gossip lightly about others in the rare-book business. It had become apparent to each of them that the other would part with their collection only at death, and Aziraphale had resigned himself to patience toward that inevitable conclusion.

“Perhaps a will…” he murmured under his breath. He had nearly reached the center of the room. Decker had stopped in the doorway behind him, but Aziraphale had eyes only for the shelves above him, gaze tracing over the titles, immediately picking out the volumes he didn’t have in the bookshop.

He took one more step forward, reaching the center of the room, and froze, feeling tendrils of magic wrap themselves around his being, seeking him out, binding him in place. He spun to look at Decker, eyes wide with shock.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, regretful.

“How did you-,” the angel’s breathing was beginning to pick up as he glanced to the floor, seeing the circle of sigils and lines he already knew had to be there. He took a step forward, to the edge of the circle, then stopped immediately when he felt a sharp tug at something deep within him. It didn’t hurt, not yet, but it was uncomfortable, and a little dizzying. The binding was well-written, and it promised certain agony at any further movement from the point to which he was tethered. If he were to attempt to move past the edge of the circle while it was still latched to him, the strength of its hold ensured not _all _of him would come with.

He stepped back into the center, shoulders slumping in relief at the slack on the binding, but he could still feel where it was attached to him, gripping his core. The sigils glowed below him, ancient words, both holy and demonic, staring up at him in careful, precise lines around the edge.

“I didn’t want to,” Decker spoke again when Aziraphale looked back up to him. “You’ve always been a nice man. A friend even.” Even from his position, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy at the break in his voice. “I didn’t want to. You have to believe me.” Decker was nearly begging, eyes darting around the room, above him, behind him. His hands shook at his sides.

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale tried to keep his voice calm, to not scare the obviously distraught man any further.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Decker made eye contact with him again. “It’s not like he threatened me. Or anything of the sort. I just… did what he said. And I don’t know why. I- I don’t think he’s human, Mr. Fell, though I suppose…” Decker swallowed and looked at the circle for a moment, then back up at Aziraphale. He seemed about to continue, but suddenly backed away, hitting the wall, mouth closing so fast his teeth made a loud _click._

Aziraphale felt the change in the air at the same moment, a burst of power and a whiff of ozone. He spun, and jumped when he came face to face with Gabriel leering cheerfully over his right shoulder.

“Aziraphale!” he smiled as if greeting an old friend, then clapped his hands together loudly, so close it made Aziraphale flinch. “You’re _early, _so glad you could make it.” He began to walk around him, admiring the circle beneath his feet, careful not to cross it. It posed no real danger to him, it had already been activated, but crossing the bounds of an active circle was never a fun experience.

“Gabriel,” his voice wavered despite his best efforts. “What is the meaning of this?”

Gabriel wasn’t paying him any attention. He finished his circling and pulled his sleeve back slightly to watch the gaudy, overpriced watch on his wrist. Aziraphale sucked in a steadying breath.

“Gabriel, I _demand _you-,”

“You will demand nothing,” he snapped, mask of false cheer almost breaking, one side of his nose twitching upward with disdain. “And _you,” _he turned, looking down his nose at Decker, who had started to edge his way out of the room. _“Stay.” _And Decker stayed, walking mechanically back to just inside the doorway, pushing himself as far back into the wall as he could, eyes wide with fear and legs trembling beneath him, but unable to leave.

Gabriel turned back to Aziraphale, and in response to his horrified expression, explained.

“Can’t have him leaving the party early. We’re still waiting on a few guests,” Gabriel grinned, hints of glinting white teeth showing.

As if on cue, Aziraphale heard the front door slam open, the wind and chill pouring into the small house, creating little tendrils of cold that whipped through the space until the door slammed shut again.

“Right on schedule,” Gabriel grinned as two figures rounded the doorway, dragging a third between them.

Aziraphale let out a strangled cry as Uriel and Sandalphon threw Crowley to the ground at his feet, just short of the circle. His hands were bound behind his back, eyes closed, and face drawn tight in pain. Aziraphale was on his knees before he made the conscious decision to drop to them, hands reaching for Crowley, shaking as he strained against the pull of the tether bound to him. He reached just a little further, wanted desperately to comfort, to hold, but stopped right at the line of the circle, being pulled back painfully now. Another centimeter would be ruin.

And he wanted to do it, wanted to face the rending consequences of reaching out. Because being able to do _nothing _was far more painful when Crowley was in such a state. The delicate skin around his eyes was already mottled black and green and an ugly, sickly purple, more bruises forming around his throat. There was a dark stain on the outside of his left thigh, and Aziraphale didn’t want to think about the size of the hole at the center of the stain, didn’t want to look any closer past the ripped cloth of his jeans.

He pulled his hand back to cover his mouth, all too aware of the three angels watching them, enjoying the scene, and he tried his damnedest to stifle the sob that worked its way up his throat when Crowley coughed, the sound turning to gag halfway through as thick blood began to slide past his lips.

_“Crowley,” _Aziraphale’s voice broke, and at that Crowley’s eye’s blinked open. Only one could open all the way, unfocused and confused, the other swollen to show only a sliver of color.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale could see the way his eyes snapped into focus, gaze shifting to make eye contact.

“Hey, angel,” he rasped, then smiled a lopsided grin that showed blood-stained teeth and only wobbled a little.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

“Naaaahhhhhhh,” the word descended into more wet coughs. “Should see the other guy.”

Aziraphale caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see Sandalphon shifting uncomfortably. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the large, heavy bruises forming on his cheek, the strange angle of his nose, the way he held all of his weight on one leg, the missing jacket.

_“Crowley, you-,” _Aziraphale’s voice pitched high with stress. There was a reason Gabriel often chose Sandalphon as his right hand, his muscle. He was ruthless, a fighter by nature. He was the one you sent when you wanted to level cities, and, apparently, when you wanted to kidnap demons. “_You fought Sandalphon?_”

“He _tried _to,” Sandalphon interjected, veneer of calm turning defensive.

“He had to call for backup,” Crowley grinned wider.

“I had it _handled.”_

“Not from where I stood,” Uriel chimed in smugly, and Sandalphon shot her a glare. Gabriel, who had been watching the scene with barely-concealed disapproval, stepped forward.

“You two should go check on things upstairs,” he suggested forcefully.

“But-,” Sandalphon started to protest, and Gabriel stopped him with a tilt of his head and a narrowing of his eyes.

“You’ve done your job adequately enough. I can take things from here.”

Sandalphon nodded tightly, and both he and Uriel looked skyward, disappearing in two glares of white light.

“Now then,” Gabriel spread his hands wide. “Let’s get this party started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm @caffeinefire on tumblr <3


	2. Chapter 2

“You,” Gabriel turned to Decker, who looked like he was trying to disappear into the wall. “Human. Fetch the main event. Quickly now,” Gabriel impatiently clapped his hands together a few times, and Decker turned around the edge of the doorframe and fled down the hall, only too eager to be away from the scene of monsters playing out before him.

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale murmured to Crowley, who rolled his eyes, the gesture diminished only slightly by the fact that only one could open all the way, and started to wiggle up into a sitting position.

“Never better, just a little _-oof,” _his sentence descended into a soft groan of pain as Gabriel stepped forward and delivered a swift kick to the ribs, sending him back down to the ground to curl around himself.

Aziraphale was on his feet, the binding tugging insistently and painfully within him as he stood at the very edge of the circle, the present and consistent pressure the only thing keeping him from moving any further forward.

_“Gabriel!”_ the rage in his voice was enough to make the Archangel look up and raise an eyebrow at him. At least he was no longer focused on Crowley. “Explain yourself. What is this?”

“Well, I thought it was obvious,” Gabriel gestured from the circle to Aziraphale to himself. “It’s round two. Execution: The Sequel,” his eyes shone as he grinned broadly.

“You-,” Aziraphale shot a desperate look at Crowley, whose eyes had closed again and was focusing on taking slow, shaking breaths. “You know you can’t hurt us,” he fought to keep his own breathing calm, trying to display an air of confidence he’d never felt before in front of Gabriel. A confidence he certainly didn’t feel now.

“Well…,” Gabriel drew out the word, as if considering his answer. “Hellfire certainly didn’t work, credit where credit is due, that threw us for a loop.” He stalked closer to where Aziraphale stood, still a careful distance from the active circle. “There is one more thing we’d like to try though.”

As he finished speaking, Decker rounded the corner into the library again, carrying a large glass container. His legs were shaking underneath him, but his arms held the pitcher carefully still, as far from him as he could. He kept his eyes on the glass, and moved into the room slowly, stopping just inside the doorway.

The container was large and spherical, with a short spout and a large glass stopper set into the opening, locked down onto the seal with thin, winding chains. The glass was the perfect clarity of heaven-made crystal, and the chains were rusted and flaking, the corrupted metalwork of hell.

And inside sloshed a thick, sickly yellow liquid and stuttering, writhing blue flame. Decker held it like a bomb, and it looked like he was right to do so. The liquid, filling about half the base, swirled and splashed of its own accord, casting dull, warped rainbows of salmon and sarcoline, sage and slate, sending the corrupted colors dancing around the room. It flew up the sides in a slow, thick wave, hiding the entirety of the vessel, then crashed down all at once.

And the flames, an unnaturally bright blue, bordering on neon, followed an even less predictable pattern than flames usually would. They sparked to life around tendrils of oil. And that’s what the liquid was, Aziraphale realized as he watched it, horrified and hypnotized. It was oil. The flames seemed to be born from the fuel, then licked up and away from it, only to extinguish themselves on another cresting wave of the yellow viscosity. They chased each other in an anxiety-inducing dance that left the vessel shaking.

“Holy oil set on hellfire,” Gabriel explained from the place he’d taken back near the opposite wall. “Michael’s idea. Pity she couldn’t be here to see it, but someone’s got to keep things going upstairs. Don’t worry,” he assured Aziraphale enthusiastically. “She said she’d playback the tapes later, catch a re-run.”

Aziraphale swallowed as he watched the oil and flame dance. He glanced down and nearly stopped breathing when he saw that Crowley had gone terrifyingly still on the floor. He was facing toward Aziraphale, eyes closed and limbs limp. He struggled to contain his sigh of relief when he saw his lips moving. It was barely perceptible. One word. Over and over.

_Stall._

Then Aziraphale caught the movement in his shoulders. It wasn’t even enough to look like he was breathing, just a slight shift one way. Then the next. Aziraphale couldn’t see his hands, still bound and facing Decker’s side of the room, but he could hazard a guess what they were busy doing. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then turned away from Crowley and towards Gabriel.

“It won’t work,” his voice was steady, but just a little too loud. “You’d be wasting your- your new weapon. I can’t imagine it was an easy thing to make.”

Gabriel frowned a little.

“No. It wasn’t,” he conceded, then smirked. “But something that volatile? I’m willing to bet it will at least do you some damage. And _that, _I would like to see.” He nodded to Decker, who looked relieved to finally set the glass vessel on the ground, then suddenly very nervous again as his hands reached down and began to unwind the chain. As its binding loosened, the glass cap began to jump and rattle from the pressure within. Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley, still not moving. Still _barely _moving. He swallowed and turned back to Gabriel.

“And Crowley?”

“What about him?” Gabriel looked confused at the question, still watching the careful unraveling of the chain.

“Why have you brought him here?” Aziraphale’s voice broke, afraid of the answer.

Gabriel snorted.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about the demon, sunshine. Officially, we can’t touch him. Not our jurisdiction, he’s Hell’s to deal with. But unofficially?” Gabriel smiled, and turned to look at Aziraphale properly. His eyes glimmered with a joy that could sour milk. “Michael’s watched enough footage of you two to get an idea of how close you are. He’s here to watch. This is as much his punishment as yours.” For a moment his grin was all teeth, no longer the restrained, faux-pleasantry that usually decorated his features. It was all glee, with just a hint of pride.

He turned back to Decker and clapped his hands again in displeasure. Decker moved just a little faster, finally, carefully, lifting the glass stopper from the vessel and releasing a few errant sparks and splashes into the air.

“_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” _he was whispering under his breath as he stood, bringing the pitcher up with him.

Gabriel gestured toward Aziraphale, and Decker took a step forward, then another, painfully, mechanically, slowly. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who had now successfully made his way to sitting, and was wiggling his shoulders more forcefully, no longer caring if he was subtle about his attempts to escape.

Aziraphale glanced between the slowly approaching pitcher and the gleeful looking Archangel.

“You’re going to make a human do your dirty work? You _can’t, _you-, you’re not even giving him a _choice,_” Aziraphale watched Decker in horror. For the first time Gabriel’s plastered-on smile fell into something darker, the loathing in his eyes turned their violet to the dull, sickly purple of a bruise, cold and cruel without his usual cheerful derision to mask it.

“Trust me. I would be more than happy to do the job myself, but,” he glanced warily over to where Decker stood, pitcher of oil held as far from himself as he could manage. “Well, needs must.”

“You know the end of that phrase right?” Crowley couldn’t resist the jab, and luckily Gabriel didn’t look too closely at him, acting as if he hadn’t heard.

“Gabriel, if we could just discuss this, perhaps-,” Aziraphale didn’t know what he was going to say. Gabriel wasn’t even looking at him, was eyeing the flickering, writhing vessel of oil and flame that was now dangerously close to the circle. He needed more time.

And suddenly, he got it.

He huffed in frustrated relief when he heard Crowley finally shuffle loose behind him and the following _snap._

Gabriel’s stillness became unnatural, Decker’s eyes glazed over, and most importantly, the oil in the glass pitcher had frozen, half crested into another wave, the sparks of bright blue flame around it had stilled, wrapping it in color that made the whole piece for a moment appear like a work of confusing modern art.

“Well it certainly took you long enough,” Aziraphale chastised, watching as Crowley attempted to stand. “Why didn’t you just miracle the ropes away?”

“With Gabriel standing right there?” Crowley eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “I had one shot at a miracle, angel, I certainly wasn’t going to waste it on the blessed ropes.” Crowley gave up trying to get his injured leg to cooperate and fell back to the floor with a pained grunt.

Aziraphale bit his lip, tugging at his hands nervously.

“So, what’s the plan then, dear?”

“The _plan _is I get you out of here,” Crowley had slithered his way over as close to the circle as he could, and before Aziraphale could stop him, reached to wipe away part of the lines.

_“Crowley wait-,”_

His hand was on fire. No, it had been dipped in holy water. No, it had been cut off completely. His ears rang as he felt the power of the active circle course through him, sending tendrils of divine electricity into not only his corporation, but into his very core.

_“ssssssss_ssshit!”

He snatched his hand back with a yelp, holding it close to his chest until the numbness receded. He flexed his fingers tentatively. The flesh was fine, whole and perfect save for the parts where the ropes had cut into his skin, leaving it red and raw. But he still felt singed, something deep inside him pulsing with the echo of pain. It hurt more than any damage to his corporation could have.

“Crowley you-,” Aziraphale had dropped to his knees to look him in the eyes. “You _stupid _creature, you know better than to cross an active circle.”

“Thought I could just wipe the base away,” he mumbled under his breath, rubbing his wrist and looking around. The oil had shifted just slightly, the crest of the wave higher. Just a stutter, then.

“_That _was your plan?” Aziraphale sighed, still watching Crowley with concern. Crowley tried to meet his eyes, but he turned to look down at the circle, avoiding eye contact. “These sigils are… complicated. Both divine and demonic. And they were drawn by an Archangel. It won’t deactivate until Gabriel shuts it down. Or until I- Until its empty.” He explained quietly. “We’ll have to think of something else.” But it didn’t sound like a call to action. It sounded like a surrender. They were both silent for a moment, the wheels in Crowley’s head turning and spinning out. Options.

Options.

Bless it all, he needed _options._

But Aziraphale seemed to just be contemplating the lines of the circle.

“You should go, Crowley,” he murmured. “At the very least, I don’t want you to see it.”

“What? _No. _We’re gonna think of a plan, remember? Aziraphale, would you look at me?” Crowley regretted asking because when he did there were tears in his eyes.

“You can’t hold time forever, my dear. And there’s little I can do to help while I’m in here,” his voice wobbled but he still attempted a smile.

“I can hold it as long as I need to, angel. Come on, don’t give up on me,” he begged, shaking his head. But Aziraphale just looked at him, tears starting to spill over and run down his cheeks.

“Oh, there’s so much I wanted to do still,” he laughed once. “Such a greedy thing I am. Six thousand years and it’s still not enough.” Aziraphale’s eyes unfocused, looking somewhere past Crowley, into some unknown future.

“Of _course, _it’s not enough, angel, you’re supposed to be there ‘til the end. Come on, help me out here. I could- I could blow up the building? What if I killed Gabriel, would that end the circle?”

“And they’d only just made it to the stars, too,” Aziraphale lamented. “Oh, I wonder how far they’ll go.” His eyes refocused on Crowley’s, smiling sadly. “I would have gone to Alpha Centauri with you, you know. Now that we wouldn’t be running there, I think the world could manage on its own for a bit. I would have loved to have seen everything you made. You could have given me the grand tour, oh, it would have been lovely.” He wiped his eyes furiously, trying to compose himself. “You’ll just have to go without me, I suppose.”

And that was too much. It was too much for Crowley to take because there was no _point _in going without Aziraphale. There was no point to any of it. And in a moment of self-clarity Crowley saw himself, saw the years stretched out before him, empty decades and lonely millennia. They were filled with boring, aching, angry grief. They were filled with pointless distractions, and loads of alcohol, and even more sleep. They were filled with guilt, and regret, and a mindless, directionless rage and he didn’t want it. It was too much and he didn’t want any of it.

And he saw Aziraphale, and he _wanted_. Aziraphale, soft and gentle and trying to wipe away his tears as fast as they came, terrified and mourning and trying to shove it all beneath a smile for Crowley’s sake. And Crowley wanted. He wanted Aziraphale to have the world, to have the stars, to have all the years to come. Sushi and books and sunsets and soft tartan blankets. And he wanted the world to have Aziraphale. Wanted him to go on saving babies, and helping little old ladies across the street, and tipping baristas way too much. He wanted.

Crowley looked at the pitcher, divine and demonic and indiscriminately deadly. He swallowed nervously. It was still frozen, but Aziraphale was right. He couldn’t hold time forever. And he only had one more idea.

He reached out a finger, testing, barely grazing the barrier and letting the power shock him. It hurt. It was agony. But he was right, it was bearable as long as he was prepared for it. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he watched him.

“What are you doing? Don’t hurt yourself, Crowley. I swear, if-,”

“I think I can reach my hand through.”

“You most certainly will not!”

“Look, just listen to me. I can reach my hand through. But I won’t be able to hold time long while I am, so we’ll have to be fast.”

“Fast? What are you talking about?”

“You’re going to switch me,” Crowley said it with as much conviction as he could muster, holding Aziraphale’s confused gaze as if he could speak the future into existence through willpower alone.

“What?” he breathed, tears quickly returning. “No. Absolutely not. Why would you-,”

“Don’t think about it too much, we don’t have time. Just switch me alright?” Crowley was flexing his hand, rolling his wrist, getting rid of any lingering numbness from the last contact so he could shove it in fresh. “We’ll do it backwards this time, keep the corporations where they are. Once I’m in there, the binding will latch to me, and you’ll be free to hop out. Gabriel won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“That- that- that _horrid _concoction is just as deadly to you as it is me. I’m offended that you think I would ever-,”

“Nah,” Crowley lied, ramping up his breathing and shaking his hand one last time. “Holy oil’s not the same. It’ll just sting a bit.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, finally getting his full attention. Then he continued quietly, “It would destroy you.”

And Crowley didn’t have the heart to lie anymore, only smiled softly, apologetic but certain.

“I know. Switch me.”

And he shoved his hand past the edge of the circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm @caffeinefire on tumblr <3  
All chapters are finished, just in need of editing. I'll post the next update next Tuesday, 11/26.  
Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

For a moment Crowley couldn’t see anything. Could only feel the white hot pain enveloping his arm and traveling all the way up through him, latching on to his core and pulling itself inside him. The pain never faded, only crawling deeper each moment, tearing at his essence as it burrowed in. After a few breaths, (and he realized he was panting, quick and shallow), his vision cleared outward, the spot of light at the center growing until he could see Aziraphale’s face in front of him, distraught.

Crowley choked out a few incoherent syllables before clearing his throat and trying again.

“Can’t- Can’t stay here forever, angel, take my hand,” Crowley begged, trying to stretch further toward him, but unable to move when the electricity of the circle was running through him, magnifying the pain already in his corporation, his leg, his ribs, his head, increasing the sensations exponentially to white-hot points of fire. It was burning him from the inside out, eating away at him like holy water. Slower, less hungry, but diminishing all the same. Crowley focused on the pale blue of Aziraphale’s eyes and kept steady, his hand shaking only slightly.

_“Switch me, Aziraphale.”_

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was full of sorrow, and gratitude, and awe, and love, but Crowley couldn’t think about that last bit because Aziraphale _still wasn’t grabbing his hand. _“Watch after the bookshop for me, will you?”

“Absolutely not. Watch after your own damned bookshop, you lazy bastard!” Crowley gasped as a wave of pain hit him anew, and time stuttered, less than a second, but enough for Gabriel’s eyebrows to twitch down slightly in confusion. “I can’t hold it anymore, angel, _please. _Just switch me!” Crowley squeezed his eyes shut quickly, trying to concentrate, leaving his hand out as a plea.

He snapped his eyes back open when he felt fingers brush his. Aziraphale’s touch, a sensation carefully examined, measured, coveted for millennia, broke through the overload of sensation, and for one brief, terrifying moment of hope Crowley thought he’d given in, was going to let himself be rescued, as was always their dance, as was _right._

_Let me do this for you. _His eyes begged as Aziraphale wrapped his hand around his fingers. _One last rescue, angel. I would give you anything. Everything. I don’t have time tell you now, but I would give you all of me. Let me give you this. Let me tell you like this._

But Aziraphale only held his fingers gently, then pressed his lips to the bruised knuckles, barely a brush of skin on skin. And by the time Crowley felt his hand being pushed back toward him, out of the maelstrom agony of the active circle, too overcome to fight the tender guidance right to the edge, he felt the warmth of Aziraphale’s healing settling into his core.

It was a powerful miracle, something that not only left his skin whole and unmarked, but soothed the scorched, throbbing parts of his core that the circle had damaged. Crowley was left breathless, drawing his hand back voluntarily now so that he could clutch at his chest, could try to contain the aching, warm thing that had wrapped itself around him, soothing its way down the paths the tendrils of electricity had burned through him. It blossomed out until he felt full, and warm, and loved.

He was going to burst from it. He was going to catch on fire. He was going to drown.

This was a miracle that left him healed, whole, and then some. After he was restored, corporation and core alike, he felt a vibrant, glowing strength flow into him, an essence both strange and familiar, filling places he’d forgotten were empty and giving him reserves of power he’d never had. He looked up at Aziraphale with eyes that shone golden, and saw his angel before him, pale, and drained, and sitting back up into the center of the circle.

This wasn’t a miracle. This was a parting gift. This was a sacrifice.

“I’m afraid this is all I can do for you, dear boy,” Aziraphale voice was weak, and tired. “It’s not much, but it should be enough to let you escape here, hide yourself while you think of a better plan.”

“Aziraphale, _no,” _Crowley wasn’t sure if he said the words aloud or only mouthed them, but Aziraphale seemed to understand, and smiled down at him with wet eyes.

“You’ve saved me so many times, my dear Crowley…,” his smile turned a little mischievous, a little pleading, and for a moment Crowley could pretend he was going to ask him for something frivolous and indulgent, another part of their game that Crowley had always loved to let Aziraphale win.

“Please, this once. Let me save you,” Aziraphale looked at Crowley fondly, smile slipping off of his face as the color in his cheeks drained away, leaving nothing but a silent plea in his eyes. He blinked quickly a few times, struggling to keep his eyes open, and Crowley realized, chest flinching inward with the blunt horror of it, just how much of himself Aziraphale had poured out.

Crowley opened and closed his mouth, unable to find voice enough for more than a whispered “_angel”_ that barely escaped on a breath. Then Aziraphale’s eyes closed in exhaustion, his head falling forward onto his chest.

Crowley didn’t notice when time restarted, when Gabriel looked around in confusion. He didn’t even really hear him when he noticed Aziraphale sitting, barely breathing, on the floor.

“Well, fuck. Did he faint? I missed it,” Gabriel sighed. “Well that makes this so much less interesting,” he muttered under his breath, then clapped his hands together, unbothered. “Still the show must go on.” He looked around as if taking stock of the room for the first time. Decker had paused in his march toward the circle, and was watching the glass pitcher in confusion, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing and why he was doing it. Gabriel’s eyes didn’t even rest on Crowley, just moved over him, barely registering his presence.

“At least you’re up,” he commented without looking at him. “I suppose inviting you wouldn’t have done much good if you weren’t awake to see the grand finale,” Gabriel’s eyes flickered back to Crowley, then again as he did a quick double take. He laughed once, surprised. “And you’re crying? I honestly didn’t think you would, but here,” he pulled a white cloth out of thin air, too large to be useful for drying eyes. “Michael said if you did, I was supposed to give you this.”

The towel landed in front of Crowley, and the soft settling of it drew his attention, finally breaking his gaze away from Aziraphale. He looked at it in confusion for a moment, then in rage. He pulled himself to his feet.

Gabriel _did _notice him now, finally looking at him properly. He held his ground, but Crowley was gratified to see he eyes widen slightly.

Gabriel noticed his hands first, at about the same time Crowley did, actually. They were wreathed with hellfire, a subtle black shimmer that licked up into orange, glowing blue where the colors met. It fed on energy, a ravenous, insatiable weapon that required constant fuel, and while he was careful to keep the power Aziraphale had gifted him untouched, Crowley himself had more than enough to spare at the moment.

Crowley waited as Gabriel took in his healed form, strong and ready, then watched as he recognized what glowed within him, holy power that should have burned him from the inside out.

“That’s impossible,” Gabriel hissed.

“I don’t really give a shit,” Crowley hissed in return, lower and longer. He took a quick step forward, and Gabriel took an instinctive half-step back before catching himself and playing it off as shifting his weight. He straightened his jacket in the same movement, then laughed.

“Nothing’s changed, demon,” he took a step forward. “I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel. And there’s only one of you. I don’t know what blasphemous hole you dug that power out of, but it’s not going to help you if you pick a fight here.”

“Oh, you’ve got it all wrong,” Crowley laughed, a maniacal edge to it. “This isn’t a fight.”

“No?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Then stand aside and let-,” he turned to where Decker had been standing with the pitcher, only to find that he had disappeared from the room, taking the oil and fire with him.

“Okay, what the _fuck _is going on?” Gabriel laughed once in disbelief, then squared his shoulders and ran a hand back through his hair. “It doesn’t matter,” he turned to Crowley, who was still letting fire lick lightly around his fingertips. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated with a grin. “I’m going to summon the human back. And he’ll bring the pitcher of divine hellfire. And _then_, Aziraphale will die.”

“If you touch a _hair on his head,” _Crowley growled, flames growing higher. “It’ll be war. You said yourself. You can’t kill me. I’m not under your jurisdiction.”

“That _hardly _applies if you instigate-,”

“That’s not my point,” Crowley interrupted, stepping sideways to stand between Gabriel and the slumped, defenseless form of Aziraphale. “My point is. He’s not your jurisdiction either. Not anymore.”

“Yeah?” Gabriel smirked. “Then who’s is he?”

“_Mine,” _Crowley growled, settling into a defensive stance.

Gabriel frowned. He huffed out an irritated sigh, but before he could reply he was interrupted by a loud knocking reverberating through the house.

“Oh, _now _what?” Gabriel muttered under his breath, but the knock only came again, louder this time.

“**No soliciting!” **he called with inhuman volume, but even as he did, he heard the front door open and a short conversation between the voice of Decker and another man. Gabriel rolled his eyes, throwing up his hands in the universal gesture for “fine, fuck it,” then waited impatiently with his hands on hips as footsteps approached the library.

“G’ morning gents. Awful weather out there, isn’t it?” A delivery man rounded the corner confidently, bundled in a winter coat and scarf, cheeks red from the cold. He took stock of the library for a moment, raising a concerned eyebrow at Aziraphale slumped over in the middle of the room, but otherwise not commenting. He read over something on his clipboard.

“I have a delivery here for a Mr. Anthony J. Crowley? That you?” he looked at Crowley, politely ignoring the flames around his fingertips, and waited patiently until Crowley nodded, brows drawn together in an exaggerated look of confusion. The deliveryman smiled, satisfied, and started to walk towards him. As he entered the room properly it became apparent that the package was tucked under his arm, a sword, a good portion of it hidden by the thickness of his coat, and currently free of any flames for convenience of transport.

He didn’t get three steps into the room before Gabriel caught up with what was about to happen.

“Uh, no. Absolutely not,” he held out a staying hand, and hurried forward to stand directly in front of the delivery man, trying to tower over him and finding himself to only be an inch or so taller. “We’re in the middle of something here, and I’m not just going to allow-,”

“Are you intending to interfere with my delivery route, sir?” his smile fell into something not quite a frown, but not quite friendly anymore either.

Gabriel blinked a few times, taken aback at having been interrupted with such confidence by a strange human in a mail uniform.

“Well I’m certainly not going to allow you to give this- this- to give _him _a sword, now am I?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t suggest that, sir,” suddenly his voice was less amiable, the low tone of a warning behind his words. “Pretty grievous consequences for interrupting a mail route. Serious crime, that.”

“I- you-,” Gabriel stuttered for a moment, then laughed. “Don’t talk to me about consequences, human. Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are.”

Gabriel’s face fell slightly, and uncertainty flashed across his eyes.

“You’re a bully. And you think the rules don’t apply to you. But I can assure you, they very much do. And I can also assure you that if you stand in the way of this delivery, you will regret it,” he spoke with the simple, unaggressive confidence of one who has an authority behind him. Crowley’s eyes flickered back and forth between the Archangel and the human, watching the transaction carefully.

Gabriel didn’t step out of the way, but he also didn’t move to impede the delivery man further, only eyeing him warily as he nodded once and returned to smiling, moving again towards Crowley.

“Well then, now that that’s settled. I’ve got a delivery for you, sir. Just sign here,” he held the clipboard and a pen out to Crowley.

“’s not mine,” Crowley protested, staring at it.

“Well the delivery’s for you,” he offered the clipboard again, but Crowley didn’t move.

“Who sent it?”

“Sorry?”

“You said it’s a delivery. I didn’t order a sword. So, who sent it?”

“It’s right here on the paperwork. You ordered the sword,” the deliveryman glanced to Gabriel for help, and when none was forthcoming he turned back to Crowley. “Here, see?” he pulled the top paper back and pointed at a few lines, but there was so much fine print crammed into so little space he could hardly focus on the words, let alone make sense of them.

“Look, Someone obviously thought you’d need it, and it says here I’m supposed to pick it up again shortly anyway. So just… take the damn thing for a minute. Here,” he shoved the sword at Crowley, who, with little else to do, took it awkwardly with both hands. “And sign here,” Crowley shifted the sword and signed silently. “Perfect. Yes. Thank you. I’ll just wait out in the truck then.”

He turned a walked off in a huff, muttering under his breath.

“Bloody hell, never had so much trouble,” he grumbled to himself all the way out the door, and they watched, listening, until they heard the front door close behind him.

There was a moment of silence as they both stared blankly at the empty doorway, Gabriel squinting to himself as tried to wrap his head around what just happened, and Crowley letting the sword hang uselessly at his side, tip scratching the floor.

Then Gabriel turned and his eyes caught Crowley’s, and for a moment there was something in them. Something not quite nervous but at least… hesitant. Crowley grinned with all of his teeth, a goading, smug, indulgent thing.

“Now where were we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @caffeinefire on tumblr <3  
Next update on Friday! (11/29)  
Thank you for reading, and for all your lovely comments and kudos!


	4. Chapter 4

“Now where were we?” Crowley grinned as he adjusted his grip on the sword. It still felt unnatural in his hand, but the weight of it settled where it should, and he began to feel less awkward with it as he raised it in front of him, holding it as a weapon instead of an unwanted prop. He moved slowly so he stood between Aziraphale and Gabriel’s new position near the doorway. His footwork was rusty, and he had never intentionally studied swordsmanship in the first place, but he hadn’t gotten through his sixth-century stint as the Black Knight without absorbing a few of the basics.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.

“You still can’t take me. Even with all the power you can handle, and a sword from who-knows-where, you still won’t be a match for me,” he stepped forward.

“Take one more step and I guess we’ll find out,” Crowley rolled his shoulder back, working muscles that were already as loose as they were going to get, feeling how the sword flowed with his arm, and most importantly, getting a grip on how Aziraphale’s power thrummed under his skin. He pulled it back from the surface, wrapping it up with his own returned energy as best he could. He wouldn’t use it. It wasn’t his.

It felt like attempting to smother sunlight with tissue paper as he struggled to keep the power contained, trying not to leech from it but unable to stem the gentle glow of strength. It was trying to make him whole in a way he’d only ever felt with the angel, and he knew if he let it, it would pour itself empty into all the bottomless fractures that made him broken, not because of what it was, but because of who it was. It was holy, but more importantly than that it was Aziraphale.

So he ordered himself firmly not to touch. He kept it just out of figurative reach, and it glowed there on the periphery of him, a reminder of what he had to lose.

He took a centering breath, and flourished the sword slightly, a dare to the unarmed Archangel.

Gabriel appraised him for a moment, then without warning stepped forward and dropped into a charge. Gabriel’s spear was in front of his face before Crowley realized he’d summoned it. He had to drop to his knees to avoid being impaled, but was on his feet again before Gabriel could turn for another strike, and when he met the spear, knocking it up and out of the way so he could step in closer and past its reach, the sword was already flaming.

He swung the blade back down, turning it to use the momentum from his upward parry, and met Gabriel’s shield with a deafening crash and a vibration of force that jarred his shoulder. It didn’t matter. The sword wasn’t what would hurt Gabriel. Crowley’s left hand was already clenched for an uppercut, wreathed in black hellfire and aiming for behind the small shield.

Crowley was able to catch a glimpse of panic in his eyes before Gabriel shoved him back, putting his whole weight behind his shield and pushing it forward with a grunt to propel Crowley out of melee range. As Crowley skipped back even farther, out of range of the spear, he saw Gabriel swipe the edge of his shield down his coat, batting away and extinguishing the tongues of black flame that had caught on the lapel, singing the material.

Any semblance of Gabriel’s cheerful disposition had vanished. His face was twisted into a snarl now, frustrated he hadn’t been able to dispatch the demon handily or perhaps upset that his coat had been effectively ruined. The expression certainly made him look more dangerous, but Crowley suspected his impatience might put him at a disadvantage. That was, if Crowley wasn’t similarly crunched for time. The quick dance had switched their positions, and just past Gabriel, Crowley could see Aziraphale: weak, and pale, and barely breathing.

Movement pulled Crowley’s attention back to Gabriel. He had settled into his stance, waiting for Crowley to make the first move now that his element of surprise was gone. His spear was short, barely taller than Gabriel himself, and his shield, polished to a mirror finish that hurt Crowley’s eyes to look at, protected only his forearm, made for movement over coverage. The tip of the spear glinted with holy energy, and Gabriel’s eyes sparked with arrogance.

_Right._

With a flick of his wrist the fire on the sword shifted, sparking to ravenous flame that burned black at the base, then a deep, healthy blue, finally licking up to a more traditional shade of orange where it was coolest. Still hot enough to burn angel grace, though. Gabriel’s expression dimmed just a little, but he held his ground.

Crowley rushed him.

Gabriel grinned, seeing the reckless mistake he expected to see in a demon, locking his spear into place horizontal at his side.

Except suddenly, Crowley wasn’t horizontal. He’d gone vertical in a burst of black feathers and a rush of air. Gabriel spun to intercept him at his back, his expected trajectory, but aborted the motion halfway through, bringing his shield over his head as Crowley dissolved his wings and dropped like a stone, sword first. He made contact with the shield and heard an earth-shattering _crack, _then felt the impact of energy trying to sunder his form as it splintered through him.

Fed up, Gabriel put _real _power behind his shove this time, more than just the strength his human corporation was capable of. Lightning raced up through his arm and shone out through his shield, meeting the demon with as much of a smiting as he could gather in the milliseconds he had. It was enough to send Crowley careening to the other side of the library, the force of the recoil sending Gabriel sliding across the floor to the opposite wall.

Crowley met the inset bookshelves with a crunch, the wood splintering behind him and the books bending and crumpling in ways that made him second-hand cringe, visions of Aziraphale’s distraught expression appearing in his mind unbidden. As he collided with the floor, head smacking against the tile, he was momentarily, fuzzily grateful that he’d abandoned his wings completely for maximum use of gravity. His back felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to it, and trying to imagine what the impact would have done to his wings…well, the thought almost hurt worse than the physical pain. It only took one blink for him to realize he’d already been on the floor for too long.

He scrambled to stand and immediately regretted the quick movement as aftershocks of divine power coursed through his system, malicious and vindictive, like ice injected into his veins. He gritted his teeth and slammed his head back against the floor, trying to mute the ethereal pain with a corporeal one. He was already running low on his own returned strength, the fire of the blade consuming the power of his core at a gluttonous pace. He could feel it trying to reach for the extra Aziraphale had bestowed on him, a deep well of energy that was absolutely, under no circumstances, usable in any way. The power he had allowed to flow into Crowley was essential to him. It was everything short of the foundation of his grace. It was _Aziraphale_. Because Aziraphale had thought he wouldn’t need it anymore.

Even worse, he could feel Aziraphale's power reaching _back, _trying to heal the new wounds to his corporation and soothe the damage done to his demonic core. 

Crowley pushed it away and forced himself to sit up, turning so he could at least see where the blow was going to come from and surprised it hadn’t already. His vision was swaying, and it took a moment of concentration to pinpoint Gabriel across the room. He squinted, trying to force his eyes to cooperate and make the several different figures of Gabriel they had decided to produce settle into just one. _The last thing I need is more Gabriels, _he thought with only a little bit of humor.

Finally, his vision popped into place, and for a moment he thought his sword must have made at least some contact, because Gabriel was holding the side of his head with one hand, his shield up by his ear. There was a definite crack in the surface that hadn’t been there before, spiderwebbing across the circle and marring the mirror finish. Gabriel didn’t look hurt, though. He looked tired, frustrated. He was starting to sweat, but more than anything he just looked annoyed. Crowley couldn’t make sense of it.

Until Gabriel glanced Crowley’s way and saw him already trying to stand, pulling himself to his feet with what was left of the bookshelves behind him, sword out and flames climbing as high as ever. Crowley saw his jaw clench, and as he lowered his shield from his ear, Crowley caught a little white rectangle disappearing from his hand.

Crowley grinned, pain all but forgotten. It was void of any cocksure confidence and filled with pure, unfiltered delight.

“Hey, Gabe?” he called, releasing the bookshelves behind him and supporting himself once again on his own two feet.

“You will _not _address me as-,”

“You weren’t, by any chance, calling for _backup, _were you?”

He didn’t answer, just scowled at him as he readjusted his grip on his spear.

“What, you get sent to voicemail? Your right-hand-Sandalphon not taking your calls?”

Gabriel ignored the jab.

“You’re stalling,” he observed tersely as Crowley failed to close any of the distance between them. “You’re tired.”

Crowley didn’t address the comment, but dread settled into his gut as he realized Gabriel was right. Crowley was spent, and every second he waited, trying to recover from the blow of holy lightning, was another second the sword sapped away at his strength. Options.

_Options._

He needed-

A slow shuffle of movement caught in his periphery, just enough in front of him that he was fairly certain Gabriel couldn’t see it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so dismissive earlier. That’s no way to treat your friends, Gabe,” Crowley taunted as he began to circle closer, trying to get the movement within easy line of sight so Gabriel wouldn’t catch what he was looking at.

Gabriel ignored the nickname this time, earlier frustration fizzling quickly into boredom.

“We both know how this ends, demon,” Gabriel cracked his neck, and Crowley used the break in attention to glance at the walkway. He didn’t smile at what he saw. Poker face. Not even a twitch of the lips. “Granted,” Gabriel continued, “I would have liked to have finished this sooner, but we both know you’re nearing the end of your rope, and I’ve only just begun.”

Crowley turned and began to circle back the other way, as far from Gabriel as possible, playing off the movement as pacing as best he could.

“Oh, I don’t know, Gabe. Maybe I just like this side of the room better. Sure you don’t want to come fight over here?” Crowley gestured grandly with the sword, letting the fire trail through the air as he readied himself into an exaggerated stance.

“I won’t fall for your taunting, demon,” Gabriel glared at him. The movement was directly above Gabriel’s head now.

Crowley shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

Then Decker poured the oil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @caffeinefire on tumblr  
Thank you all so much for reading! I thrive on your comments <3  
This chapter was super fun to write, next update on Tuesday again (12/3)


	5. Chapter 5

The holy oil cascaded over the railing of the walkway, hurtling towards Gabriel’s head in a trail of hellfire and grotesque light. The fire and oil danced on the way down, twirling against each other, repelled from the opposite nature but inextricably linked as the flames burned their way across the fuel. The wild flashes of movement and refracting light gave Gabriel just enough warning to glance up, expression suddenly open in unfiltered panic. Even as he raised his shield to buy himself time, he was already dissolving into a brilliant glare of blue heaven that shone sideways at a speed only light could travel.

He was nearly fast enough.

A drop of oil caught the tail edge of the streaming incandescence, small tongues of sick blue flame dancing around the light lines in midair. A high-pitched tone rang through the room, so loud that the shelves shuddered, books quaking from their perches and landing on the floor. It was a sound more felt than heard, vibrating bones and pulling basic, primal emotions to the surface. Fear and rage and fear and panic and desperation and _fear._ It sent every human in a three block radius instinctively to their knees. Clear and shrill with pain, it resonated sharply, higher and higher, past the range of human hearing. It sounded so terrified and agonized that for a moment Crowley, cringing and fighting the urge to cover his own ears, almost felt bad. Almost. The light writhed in place for only a fraction of a second, trying in vain to shake off the blue flame, before finally fleeing upward, disappearing in a desperate flash of radiance.

“_Coward!” _Crowley shouted up into the empty air, releasing the nervous energy under his skin with volume, hoping Gabriel had heard him, hoping even harder that he’d been injured severely enough that he didn’t decide to come back. He watched the ceiling for another moment, breathing hard as he waited for Gabriel’s return, for his backup, and when none came some of the tension finally fell from his arms and he let the point of the sword drop to the floor. He didn’t loosen his grip on it, though, not yet.

He didn’t have time to celebrate his de facto victory because at the same moment the burst of Archangelic light faded through the ceiling, the oil splashed onto the floor. It spread immediately, crawling along the tile and splattering up onto some of the books, pulling the fire with it.

And when Crowley looked back down, the books were on fire.

The library was on fire.

And Aziraphale was trapped in the center.

Crowley swallowed nervously. He was exhausted, and felt undeniably fragile in comparison to the strength of Aziraphale’s life within him, warm and safe, the pull to use it getting harder and harder to resist. There was so _much _of it, and Crowley’s own occult energy was being drained inexorably into the flames on the sword. Piece by piece, he was feeding the hellfire with himself.

He needed to drop it, _now, _before he passed out.

He spared a glance up at Decker. The book collector was still kneeling on the walkway, covering his ears with his hands from the clarion shriek of the Archangel. His eyes were squeezed closed, blind to the divine hellfire starting to catch properly, consuming page after page and pulling the oil up with it to soak into the wood of the shelves.

“Get out of here!” Crowley yelled, managing to catch the man’s attention, but he didn’t wait for more than eye contact before he turned to Aziraphale. He eyed the hellfire on the sword warily, then walked toward the circle. The opposite side of the room had become a proper little bonfire, and Crowley could feel power pouring off of it, could feel the heat of hell (which didn’t bother him much) and the sharp chill of divine energy (which bothered him quite a bit). Still, he took his time. He couldn’t afford to rush this, not with the demonically flaming sword so close to Aziraphale. He pushed the blade forward slowly, sliding the tip along the ground to keep it steady. He only needed to nick the circle, one clean break in the lines would dissolve their power.

As soon as the tip of the metal met the light-blue shine of the sigils, Crowley felt the circle react in retribution. Even as its power surged through him, he had the presence of mind to yank the sword back toward him, away from Aziraphale. He dropped to his knees, wrapping his free arm around himself with a gasp, suddenly afraid that he might fly apart. He felt something rend inside of him, a tear in the fabric of his essence, and realized that if any more holy power surged through him today, he might. He took a deep breath, resolving to deal with it later.

He watched the divine sigils around the edge fade, the demonic ones unaffected, and groaned in frustration, then looked up sharply as he heard someone calling to him.

“What are you _doing?” _Decker shouted down to him, drawing his attention.

“You- wh- Me? What am _I _doing?” Crowley sputtered, looking back and forth between the flames that were shining uncomfortably bright and Decker, who was still, inexplicably, standing on the walkway. Then Crowley saw what he was holding.

“Are _fucking serious? _Leave the books! Get out!” Decker looked at Crowley, then back to the bookshelf, then to the fire, then he pulled the handful of volumes he’d grabbed close to his chest and finally ran from the library.

“What the _fuck _is wrong with book people?” Crowley muttered under his breath, glancing back at his own book person, unmoving in the middle of the room as the fire drew higher and the oil began to slide closer. Crowley closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out images of burning bookshops and dead angels, an attempt that wasn’t very successful considering the sights that met him when he opened them again.

_Sword’s not the problem, _he reasoned, rising fully to his feet, _the damned thing cracked Gabriel’s shield_. The fire was climbing higher, finally meeting the walkway and beginning to spread outward along the path. Soon it would surround the room. Crowley walked toward the blaze, an uncomfortably short distance already.

The flames, an electric blue that hurt to look at, had been borne from holy energy, and he gritted his teeth as he moved closer to where the oil lay pooled on the tile. _Maybe with just a little extra umph… _The divinity set him shivering, still trying to recover from the shock of the fractional smiting Gabriel had sent through him earlier and from the sharp strike of the circle, the threads of him beginning to fall from their weave like an old blanket in the wash.

He glanced back at Aziraphale and let out a small, pained noise that he was glad no one had been able to hear. Then, he steeled himself and walked closer to it, shaking, letting the sword trail on the ground behind him.

Ignoring the trembling in his limbs and the way he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, (_the smoke _he told himself, though the holy-hellfire burned clean) he took the last few steps to the edge of the oil and ran the tip of the sword through it.

The fire changed immediately. With a new fuel for them to feed from, he felt the drain on his core stop, but had no time for relief as electric blue flame raced up blade. He became abruptly aware of how close the fire was to licking at his skin.

He didn’t let himself think about it too much and forced himself to move slowly. The flames burned cold like ice on bare flesh, curling around his hand but never quite touching as he placed the point of the sword against the tile and pushed forward. Finally, the tip of the sword reached the edge of the circle again, then slid clean through. All the tension left him, and Crowley snapped forward like a rubber band pulled too taut, dropping the sword with a clatter.

“Aziraphale, angel, you have to wake up,” Crowley cradled his face in his hands, tapping his cheeks lightly. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

He didn’t move, wasn’t breathing, wasn’t warm.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, pleading under his breath.

“Please angel, if I try to give it all back to you now, we’ll _both _be passed out, and that won’t do anyone any good. You’ve got to help me here, I don’t think I can carry you.”

_“Crowley…”_

Crowley felt his name in a breath against his own lips and his eyes snapped open. Aziraphale’s were still closed, but his face seemed less gray, less pained. Then a hand reached up and grasped his shirt weakly, and he felt Aziraphale lean into him.

Crowley caught him with both arms, falling back a little under the weight.

“Yeah angel, it’s me,” Crowley’s voice broke as Aziraphale laid his head against his chest. “Come on. Up you get.”

With a bit of stumbling, Crowley got his feet under him, pulling Aziraphale up with him. He was almost entirely dead weight, and by the time Crowley got him on his feet, he was shivering against him, exhausted. Aziraphale leaned forward into him, hands grasping his shirt tightly, more unconscious than not, and Crowley hugged him to his chest, half lifting, half just trying to be a stable surface to lean on, and trying wholly not to think about how it felt to have Aziraphale’s face tucked against his neck.

They made their way toward the exit in a slow, awkward shuffle. Not fast enough for Crowley’s liking, but fast enough to get them there. They paused by the sword. Crowley briefly considered leaving it, but didn’t particularly look forward to explaining the loss to the delivery man who had, knowingly or not, threatened an Archangel and gotten away with it.

He knelt down carefully, shifting Aziraphale to lean against his side, supporting him with one arm. He clutched at Crowley miserably as they stood back up, breathing quick and shallow into his shoulder.

“I’ve got you angel, don’t worry.”

They were almost out the door when Crowley paused again. The fire was still on the walkway, devouring its way sideways. Part of the ground floor shelves were unsalvageable, but so many books, including almost the entire second floor, were untouched. Crowley groaned, and glanced at Aziraphale, who didn’t say anything, hadn’t said anything, was mostly still unconscious.

“Aziraphale, I’m sorry. I can’t,” he pleaded, looking around helplessly, “I _can’t.”_

He was tapped out, empty. After an Archangel’s smiting, even a weak one, he wouldn’t even be _conscious _right now if it weren’t for the gift Aziraphale had given him, energy and strength and a third thing Crowley wouldn’t name until he was sure neither of them was going to die. It was the only thing he had left, and it _wasn’t his to use_.

It would be greedy. Downright selfish.

“I don’t have it in me, angel, I’m _sorry,”_ he groaned and stumbled back a step, struggling to hold both himself and Aziraphale standing. He eyed the spreading fire. He needed to move. “I’d need to use _yours _and I can’t- I’d never forgive myself if I took too much from you. You need it, I- I _won’t-,”_

Crowley glanced down. Aziraphale was still unconscious against him, brow furrowed in distress, as if he were having a nightmare. Crowley wanted to reach up and soothe the lines, but his hands were full of angel at the moment. He sighed. He’d always been a selfish creature anyway. Demon, came with the territory.

“_Alright, fine.”_

-

-

-

Aziraphale felt cold.

It wasn’t the sharp, burning cold of wind and snow, but the hollow cold of an empty room devoid of all comfort. It was a cold that ached down to the bone, down to the center of him. It was the cold of being alone, of being small, of being trapped.

Time had grown fuzzy, and he had grown numb, the only sensations being a tight pull in the center of him, holding him in place, and that horrible echoing emptiness. He was hollow. He was nothing.

And then he was pulled to the surface, the skin of him created with gentle touch and soft words. Pinpricks of warmth that rested on his cheeks, and syllables that gave sound its purpose, breaking through the white noise that surrounded him.

“…._angel………………”_

Then his face lit up with warmth, skin against his forehead, and he found he had lips as breath ghosted over them. Quiet, desperate pleas that tasted of fire, of stars, of love, of love, of love.

Crowley.

_Crowley._

Crowley had been in danger.

He called to him, reached for him, tried to gather him up, but instead found himself falling forward, and Crowley caught him. Of course he did. Hadn’t he always been there to catch him, to pull him to his feet, to stand strong and steady, certain of his course while Aziraphale wavered?

Aziraphale clung to him, too tired to focus on the words he was saying, catching snippets of phrases.

“_I’ve got you, angel…” _and he could feel his long, lean arms surrounding him, could smell the firewood heat of him as he rested his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale did his best to keep himself upright and let Crowley lead him, unsure of where they were going, or why, but willing to follow anywhere.

They paused, and through the filter of unconsciousness, he caught the crackle of flames and felt more than heard the murmuring of Crowley above him.

“…_I’d never forgive myself if I took too much from you…”_

_You couldn’t, _if he could speak his voice would be breaking. He tried to cling tighter, but was already inseparable from the fabric he clutched. _You must know. There’d be nothing to forgive. I would give you all of me._

Before he could find the strength to utter the words, he heard an anguished groan from Crowley, then felt a burst of power from beside him, expanding to encompass the entirety of the room in brilliant warmth.

And then they were moving again.

And he felt the miserable chill of the morning air, and there wasn’t enough of him to divert the snow or warm him against the biting wind. The demon’s voice above him was short and panicked, and the arms around him grew tighter as he was ushered onward, pulled forward. He tried to stay on his feet, stay awake enough to catch the conversation that Crowley was having, but the wind tore through him straight to the bone, and by the time they’d made it to the Bentley, Aziraphale had all but collapsed, awareness falling back into himself as the cold sapped what little strength he’d had left.

-

-

-

Crowley held Aziraphale close, trying to shelter him from the wind even as he shivered from it, stumbling along as quickly as he could manage. He cursed as Aziraphale’s legs buckled steps from the Bentley, just managing to keep his grip on him and stop him from hitting the ground. At least he had both hands available, having finally shoved the blasted sword off on the waiting delivery man. He cursed him anyway, cursed Decker, cursed Gabriel, and cursed himself as he gathered Aziraphale closer him, unable to lift him entirely, but pulling him as gently as he could into the passenger seat of the car.

The Bentley had been waiting for him. She always was, no matter where he was or how he’d gotten there. And it was a good thing too, because Crowley needed to get the angel back to the bookshop _now. _He settled him gently into the passenger seat, careful to avoid knocking his head on the doorframe. He hesitated for a moment, then reached across to buckle him in, trying to ignore how cold the angel was and how shallowly his chest seemed to be moving.

Aziraphale settled weakly against the headrest, whimpering slightly when Crowley withdrew. Crowley resisted the urge to brush back the curls that had matted down on his forehead, instead rounding the front of the car quickly and throwing himself into the driver’s seat, ignoring the sharp burst of pain as the seat rubbed up against the enormous, bloody bruise his collision with the bookshelves had made of his back.

“Let’s get you, home, angel.”

A small crowd had gathered to watch the strange, smokeless, blue flames leap out of the roof of the terrace house. The unstable inferno hadn’t spread much further than the library, unable to reach past the bounds of its original fuel. It would likely burn itself out soon, but for the moment there were more than a few gawkers standing in an inadvisable location in the street. The next moment, they were lying in a slightly more advisable location, having leapt out of the way, some with a little miraculous help, as the Bentley went from zero to ninety faster than physics should have allowed, leaving the flickering blue far behind in its rearview mirror.

At first, Crowley drove slowly, relatively at least, not wanting to jostle Aziraphale too much when he couldn’t brace himself. But his concern pushed the gas down harder with each passing moment, and his guilt added weight to his foot. He was well aware that he was awake on borrowed energy, and he was finding it hard to keep his eyes on the road when Aziraphale was in the passenger’s seat, not telling him to keep his eyes on the road. Not telling him to slow down. Not saying anything at all, really.

By the time he reached the bookshop, he was pushing one-fifty, and had to throw out an arm to help the seatbelt as he slammed the brakes, sending Aziraphale shooting forward. He froze for a moment after his back crashed against the seat behind him, gritting his teeth as he let the pain dissipate. It only took a couple of breaths to realize that his hand was still resting on the angel’s chest, and only one more for him to realize that it wasn’t moving. They didn’t need to breathe, not strictly, but he was almost certain it wasn’t a _good _sign.

“Aziraphale, no. No no no no no. Come on, wake up,” he grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, touched his face, trying to pull him back to semi-consciousness like he’d done before. Aziraphale didn’t react.

Crowley stopped breathing himself and spared a glance for the storm that had picked up outside.

He wanted to get him into the bookshop.

Aziraphale wasn’t breathing.

The bookshop was _safe, _was _warm._

Aziraphale wasn’t breathing and through the contact of his hand, Crowley realized that he could barely sense his core, a dim flicker where should have a vibrant, raging inferno.

There wasn’t any time.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Crowley redoubled his grip on his hand. “Here’ll have to do.”

He closed his eyes and felt the brilliant warmth gleaming near the core of him. There wasn’t anything to contain it anymore, and it shone unchecked. He felt a tickle at his back as it tried to heal him against his will, and he only just managed to push it away. He felt it trying to pour itself into his splintered core, damaged and sundered by the holy smiting and the shock of the circle, and _that _was harder to pull it back from. It was a stubborn thing. It was Aziraphale, after all.

_Time to go home, _he told it, pulling Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips and pressing them to his knuckles as he’d seen him do, gently, reverently, trying not to think about the taste of paper and rain and red wine that lingered afterward. He breathed out, releasing the power like pulling up the gates of a dam, river water finally allowed to flow to the sea.

And his breath caught when it wouldn’t move, staying twisted up around himself like a whirlpool.

“No no no no no_ no no,”_ he’d never been any good at healing, but this wasn’t healing, he told himself, grasping the angel’s hand tighter and trying to push the power away. This was simply returning something to where it belonged. It should be easy. _It should be easy._

_Someone-damnit, angel, take it back, _he clambered up to kneel on the seat and tried again to pour the power back, begging it to release him and heal the angel, warm the angel, just get the angel _damn well breathing again, _but it glowed insistently next to his own essence, trying to piece him back together against his own wishes.

“I’ll be fine,” he whispered out loud. “I promise. I swear I’ll be fine. Just-,” he was lying. Without the angel’s energy there to act as a patchwork, he would begin to unravel. _I really might be fine, _he told it. And he might be. Be Aziraphale wouldn’t. And in a panicked moment of _what happens if I can’t give it back? _he lost his grip on the energy, and it immediately began to stitch him back together, weaving threads of him around each other, knowing intimately where each piece should go.

He reigned it in desperately. There was some serious damage done there. It would be too much. There wouldn’t be enough to give back. A miracle back in the library was one thing. Saving a couple pedestrians was another. But _this? _For _himself? _He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself this, not when Aziraphale was dying in front of him, and he froze as he thought the word.

Aziraphale was dying.

And he wouldn’t be able to do a blessed thing about it if he didn’t compromise with the obstinate, self-sacrificing, ridiculous bits of angel essence plucking away at his core.

“Angel,” he groaned. “You stubborn bastard. _Fine._”

And squeezing his eyes shut, he released his hold on it entirely, pulling Aziraphale toward him as he tried to nudge as much of the power his way as he could manage, failing to hold back a sob as he felt a good portion expend itself pulling him back together. When the core of himself finally glowed whole and stable, he poured everything else into the angel, returning only a fraction of the power he’d taken and hating himself for it.

He smiled, though, guilt placated in some small measure when he noticed the color returning to Aziraphale’s cheeks and felt his breath settle into a deep, steady rhythm. Anxiety dulled by the rise and fall of the angel’s chest and the growing warmth beside him, he rested his head for a moment against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Just a moment. He’d get them into the bookshop once he’d regained a little of his own strength. He just needed to rest for a moment.

Within a moment, his eyes had slipped closed, quite without his permission, and he’d settled peacefully into the angel’s lap, snoring softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @caffeinefire on tumblr  
Thank you so much for reading and for all of your kind comments! Nearly at the end now! Time for the comfort in the Hurt/Comfort and the happy ending in the Angst with a Happy Ending <3  
Okay, and maybe just a little more angst. Just a smidge. Last update Friday (12/6)!


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale blinked awake, then blinked a few more times, darting his eyes around in disoriented confusion. He’d been asleep, which was odd in and of itself.

He rarely slept, though recently he’d taken to dozing occasionally in his armchair when he was feeling particularly warm and comfortable. Right now he was feeling neither warm, nor comfortable. His neck had an odd ache in it, and as he sat straighter to try to stretch out the complaining muscle his awareness of his surroundings expanded. The Bentley. Well that partially explained why he was so cold. Outside, a winter storm had begun to rage properly, buffeting the car with opaque winds of snow, and Aziraphale shivered on instinct.

It was certainly well below freezing outside, and the wind chill only worsened the situation, but the shivering was new. It had been quite some time since he’d felt so worn out that the cold actually affected him. Worn out because…

Because?

Because _Crowley was in danger._

He turned to the driver’s seat in a panic, jumping to open the door when he didn’t see Crowley beside him, but he froze when he felt something jostle in his lap at the sudden movement.

“Crowley!” the sight of the demon, sprawled awkwardly across the seats of the Bentley, unmoving, sent a jolt of fear up his spine, which was immediately assuaged when he heard a soft moan of protest. Aziraphale relaxed back against the seat with a sigh, his head making a soft _pat _as it hit the leather headrest.

He felt Crowley squirming and glanced back down, heat rising in his cheeks when he noticed the demon pulling himself closer to the softness of his stomach, trying to curl around him in a space that was certainly not meant for two people.

“Crowley, dear,” he murmured, touching his shoulder, then flinching back at how the surface felt like _ice._ He realized suddenly that if _he _was cold, even as tired as he was, Crowley must be positively frozen. He was snoring lightly, each exhale punctuated with soft sound and, concerningly, a small shudder that seemed to come from deep within him. Aziraphale set his hand on the cold shoulder in his lap again, squeezing it gently in an attempt to rouse him. The only response he received was Crowley pulling his knees up closer to him, almost entirely off of the driver’s seat now, sinking himself deeper into Aziraphale’s lap.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed, unable to keep the fondness from his voice, despite his concern. Crowley could be practically comatose when asleep, particularly if he wanted to avoid something, such as freezing weather. Or difficult conversations. Aziraphale shook his shoulder firmly.

“Crowley, if you don’t wake up, I’ll be forced to carry you inside. Don’t think I won’t,” when his threat earned him no reaction, he huffed out a breath.

“Right then,” he pulled the demon toward him easily, gathering him up into his arms, pressing Crowley’s head to his shoulder to block his face from the cold, letting his legs dangle from where he supported him at the knees, and letting his arms wrap around him when he unconsciously sought out more warmth. Aziraphale took a moment to breathe through the thickness in his throat. Whatever had happened (and pieces were coming back to him, Gabriel had been there, Crowley had been hurt) Crowley had gotten them out of it. On his own. And it had clearly taken everything he’d had.

Aziraphale held him tighter, readying himself before opening the car door, then made the mad dash through the storm to the bookshop. The snow had the good sense to ignore them, leaving them dry, but still, he shut the door quickly behind him, sighing in relief at the warmth of home.

He turned to walk further into the shop, then paused, frowning in confusion. His first wild conclusion was that someone had tried to steal all of his books, but had only gotten the job halfway done, piling a good portion of his stock by the front door. There were stacks of books on his desk, on his chair, on any piece of furniture that had something resembling a flat surface, which included a good number on top of bookshelves that were going to be absolute hell on earth to reach. There were fully formed, four-sided pyramids of books in a few of the larger aisles, and a few previously-empty walls that now had modern, floating shelves lining them, filled from bookend to snake-statue bookend.

A closer look at the titles revealed that they weren’t his books at all.

Decker’s collection.

And with that missing piece, everything fit back into place. The oil. The library. Crowley’s foolhardy, selfless, self-destructive insistence.

And his own steadfast refusal.

He nearly laughed, tears welling up in his eyes and no hands available to wipe them. He had given Crowley every chance he could, had all but begged him to save himself. To run. Crowley was supposed to have run. Aziraphale hadn’t expected to feel warm, or safe, or _anything_ ever again, and yet here he was, home and whole, surrounded by the familiar smells and soft sounds of his bookshop. Because Crowley hadn’t run. Crowley had- He had-

Aziraphale swallowed down his thoughts, clearing his throat and resolving to ask Crowley details later. First things first, he needed to get him warm. If it wasn’t for the occasional squirm and soft snore from the demon in his arms, he would have been worried.

Crowley shivered in his grip, and Aziraphale held him as tightly to himself as he could. Okay, if he was being honest with himself, he was still a little worried. Crowley was obviously considerably more drained than he was, and he had no idea how long they’d been sitting in the cold Bentley.

Crowley was light in his arms, and he moved quickly with him to the couch in the backroom. He positioned him on the cushions, then pulled a thick, cream-colored blanket from the air, tucking it in around him. After a moment’s hesitation he pulled a second one, black this time, and tucked it in around the first, creating a double-insulated cocoon of warmth. He stood up, inspecting his work, and certainly not lingering on the way Crowley’s hair looked sleep-mussed and sideways. His glasses must have been lost at some point, leaving his expression open, content and unworried, cheeks and nose still blush-red from the cold. When Aziraphale caught himself staring at his slightly-parted lips (he was still snoring just loud enough to be annoying if it weren’t for the constant relief that came with being able to hear him breathe) he shook himself, squaring his shoulders and turning away.

He would have preferred to light a fire, but Crowley had been nervous, fidgety around open flame in the bookshop since Armageddon. He hadn’t outright asked Aziraphale to stop using the fireplace, but Aziraphale had stopped all the same. He snapped his fingers, turning up the heat in the shop by a few degrees, and made for the kitchen.

He doubted Crowley would be waking anytime soon; the demon could sleep for a week on a whim. It was anyone’s guess how long he’d be out when properly exhausted, so Aziraphale set about making tea for himself. He’d only just gotten everything out of their cupboards when he heard a murmur and a shout from the next room.

“’Ziraphale?” then louder. “Aziraphale!”

He jumped, rushing to the doorway to see Crowley struggling with the blankets wrapped around him, trying to pull them off in a half-awake panic.

“Crowley! Crowley it’s alright,” he darted forward and set his hands gently on his shoulders, then his upper arms, not restraining him, but allowing his touch to relax him. And it did. “Lay back down. Cover up, you’re freezing.”

Crowley didn’t lay back down, but he did stop panicking, staring at Aziraphale for a moment as his breathing calmed. He swallowed and sat up properly, letting the blankets fall around him.

“Aziraphale?” he asked, bewildered, hair still wild.

“Yes, dear. Who else would it be?” Aziraphale would have struggled not to laugh at the state of him, except that his eyes were wide and scared, searching over Aziraphale with open worry.

“You’re okay?” Shivers had started to wrack through him again from the loss of the blankets, but Crowley made no move to correct it.

“Yes. Yes, I’m just fine,” he assured him, reaching down to pull the covers back up over Crowley’s shoulders, withdrawing quickly as Crowley grasped the blankets, their fingers brushing. Crowley didn’t say anything, still watching him carefully, and Aziraphale got the sense that he hadn’t quite returned from wherever he’d been while asleep.

“I’m going to finish making tea. I’ll be back in a moment. Alright?”

Crowley nodded.

“Tickety-boo,” he turned, and was gratified to hear an annoyed snort from behind him.

A few minutes later, he’d settled into his armchair, warm tea in hand and another warm cup nestled in Crowley’s, who was looking considerably more awake, if no less worried.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale ventured. “Any better? I’d rather expected you to sleep for longer.”

“How am _I _feeling?” Crowley’s attempt at looking offended didn’t play as well as he’d hoped when he was still shivering beneath a pile of blankets. “You’re the one who- who-,” he waved his hand vaguely, looking upset, then quickly returned his palm to the warm cup.

“Yes, _I’m_ the one who awoke to you, passed out and frozen half-to-discorporation, curled up in my lap in the Bentley,” he finished for him, earning an eye-roll that did a poor job of hiding the spreading red on the demon’s cheeks. Aziraphale hesitated before continuing nervously. “I don’t remember much after… well. But everything is alright now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Then the details can wait until you’re feeling better. I’m feeling rather in need of some rest, myself.”

“I-,” Crowley frowned and turned away again, looking miserable, “Sorry… about that. My fault. I can explain. I should explain.” He leaned forward and set his tea on the coffee table, then ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, though it did little to steady him. The lingering cold was still sending small shocks of chill across his skin, and anxiety hummed underneath it.

“I’d been so careful. I was being so careful, I swear. But the books- And you- I- I didn’t-,” Crowley groaned in frustration, unable to put the words he wanted into the appropriate order. The chattering of his teeth certainly wasn’t helping.

Aziraphale watched him, tugging at his fingers nervously in his lap, but as Crowley cut himself off with shudder, he stood decisively. He set down his tea and pulled one side of the blanket away from Crowley, who only leaned back slightly, letting him do as he pleased. He climbed into the blankets, then closed his side back around them, trapping the warmth.

“Wh- What’re you doing?” Crowley’s eyes were wide, and he wished, not for the first time since he’d woken up in the bookshop, that he had his glasses as Aziraphale put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. He was too cold to object, and too tired to hide the mix of relief and panic on his face.

“You’re shaking, dear.”

“I’ll be fine, just a little cold,” he murmured half-heartedly, even as he leaned into the touch.

“Come here.” And bless it all the angel was _warm, _which was a comfort in more ways than one. Crowley pressed up against his side, awkward at first, then settling into the softness of him. Aziraphale’s arms surrounded him, radiating so much heat that he was in danger of slipping right back into sleep. They sat like that for a moment as Crowley’s shivers subsided.

“Now then,” Aziraphale murmured, “If you insist on telling me everything right now, why don’t you start at the beginning, hm?”

Slightly thawed and feeling marginally less anxious with Aziraphale so close, it wasn’t long before Crowley gained momentum, unconsciously moving closer to Aziraphale as he spoke until he was on top of the angel. He spoke animatedly with one hand, though Aziraphale couldn’t see it under the blanket, his legs tucked neatly up over Aziraphale’s lap as he curled around him. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley had noticed what he’d done, or how quickly he’d done it, but Aziraphale certainly noticed, and he wouldn’t have mentioned it to Crowley for the world.

“Anyway, the delivery guy, same guy from outside the airbase, he showed up- Who even _is _that guy?”

“I haven’t the faintest, dear.”

“He showed up with your sword-,”

“It’s not my sword-,”

“Told Gabriel to fuck off, and gave it to _me.”_

Aziraphale snorted.

“And what were you supposed to do with a _sword?”_

Crowley stared at him, and blinked once, with purpose. When Aziraphale didn’t look even remotely like he was going to retract the question, Crowley tilted his head and glared at him.

“I chopped vegetables and made him a stew- What do you _usually _do with a sword, Aziraphale?”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to stare, waiting for a second punchline. Then his mouth opened, then closed again, as his expression grew more and more concerned.

“Crowley did you _fight Gabriel?” _his voice pitched so high, that Crowley almost laughed.

“_Why _do you say it like that?”

“Because he’s- he’s _Gabriel_, Crowley. You don’t just take on an Archangel and- and-,” Aziraphale’s voice grew thick and he cleared it, and Crowley didn’t miss the way he pulled him closer. “Besides, I didn’t know you could even use a sword.”

“I didn’t get through the sixth century without picking up a thing or two,” Crowley hesitated, watching Aziraphale’s worried eyes, then continued with a softer voice. “I wasn’t going to just stand aside, Aziraphale. Archangel or not.”

They sat quietly for a minute, and it was Crowley who looked away first, trying to straighten up and put some distance between him and Aziraphale, but ending up settling right back against his warmth.

“In the end it was your book friend who got him,” Crowley explained casually. “Dumped the whole blessed pitcher right on top of his head.”

“Wait, is Gabriel-?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“Probably not. He flashed out of there pretty quick,” Crowley shrugged, grimacing. “Doubt we’ll see him for a while, though. He got singed pretty good. Don’t think he enjoyed it much.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale tried to sound concerned. He really did. Crowley snorted at the attempt, and Aziraphale fought a smile at the corners of his mouth.

Just as he was getting his grin under control, he remembered something.

“Oh yes, and what in heaven’s name happened to the front of my shop? It’s a _disaster,” _the words sounded like a complaint, but they were far too delighted to be convincing.

“Is this a new development?”

“Crowley-,”

“Alright, alright,” he sniggered. “Like I said, hellfire got tossed around a bit. Library was gonna go up,” Crowley paused for a moment, staring at nothing, then cleared his throat and continued. “Didn’t really know what to do with them all, so I just kind of…,” he gestured vaguely toward the front of the shop. “Popped them in wherever they’d fit.”

“You saved them.”

He looked up to see Aziraphale watching him with an expression so overly fond that he turned away again and started picking at the edge of the blanket.

“I _stole _them, yeah,” he emphasized. “Demonic impulse. Couldn’t help it.”

Aziraphale only hummed in response, then sighed.

“I suppose I’ll have to return them to Decker eventually, though,” he lamented. “It appears I owe him one, as they say. And they _are _his in the first place.”

“They are _not,” _Crowley protested. “I stole them fair and square. Besides, where’s he gonna keep them all? Just consider it even for him trapping you in that miserable circle and trying to kill you.”

“It wasn’t his fault, dear,” Aziraphale ran a hand absentmindedly through Crowley’s hair, trying to calm him before he worked himself up. “Though you do have a point about storage. Perhaps I’ll just keep them until he asks after them. Or until his renovations are complete.”

“There you go,” Crowley grinned at him.

They slipped into silence for another minute, and when Aziraphale realized what he was doing with Crowley’s hair, he only paused for a moment before continuing. Crowley hadn’t complained yet, he reasoned; in fact, he’d leaned into it, resting his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale rested his own head back against the couch, closing his eyes in contentment.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he hummed softly.

“For what?” Crowley raised his head, turning with a frown. Aziraphale only smiled.

“Fighting an Archangel. Saving an entire library. Getting us home. Quite the grand escapade.”

“It wasn’t-,” Crowley protested, sounding agitated again, and Aziraphale opened his eyes. “You shouldn’t thank me, Aziraphale. You trusted me and I-,”

“You saved my life, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted. “I should be allowed to thank you this time.” But Crowley had pulled away.

“No, I didn’t I-,” Crowley cut himself off with a hiss.

Aziraphale had slid his hand down from his hair and begun to rub comforting circles into his back, trying to calm him, coax him back onto his shoulder, but Crowley flinched away like he’d been touched with a hot iron. Aziraphale pulled his hand back immediately, looking stricken.

“Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t meet his eyes, sitting up instead and letting the blankets fall down around them, releasing the warmth into the air.

“Crowley are you injured?”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Just a couple bruises from the fight.”

“Then you won’t mind if I have look,” Aziraphale concerned face dropped into something more serious.

“It’s really not anything to worry about. It’ll heal on its own.”

“Crowley, _please.”_

And bless him, but he couldn’t deny the angel anything. Especially not when he asked outright. He sighed and turned away, sitting sideways on the couch with one leg sprawled out and the other pulled up toward him.

“Alright, alright. If it’ll make you feel better,” Crowley shrugged off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of the couch. “But only so you can see that its _fine.” _He grasped the bottom of his shirt and tugged it up gently to just under his arms so that his back was bared.

Aziraphale sucked in a small, nearly silent breath.

“There, see. Nothing to fuss over,” he moved to cover it again, but Aziraphale stopped him with a gentle touch to his hand.

Crowley’s back was a ruin of bruises and blood, large swollen splotches of dark red that promised an ugly yellow and purple landscape in the next day or two. In the worst spots, the skin had been scraped raw, bright red blood leaking out, open wounds that Crowley had left untreated and unacknowledged. Looking up, Aziraphale could see where he had bled through his shirt, hidden until recently by his jacket.

He brushed a finger down the edge of one particularly nasty looking bruise, tender and careful, barely ghosting over the bloodied skin. Crowley tensed, though he didn’t flinch away like before. Aziraphale pulled his hand back anyway, though he still ran his finger down the line of the wound, tracing it in the air.

“You’ve sat here with this? The whole time?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Well, it won’t when I’m through with it,” and Aziraphale touched his finger to the worst of the damage again, ever so lightly, willing the skin whole, and new, and painless.

Crowley jumped up before he could so much as soothe a single cut, jamming his shirt back down so hard he flinched as the fabric swept over the injury.

“I told you its fine, you don’t have to,” he shoved his hands into his pockets, looked steadfastly at the carpet as if it had done him a personal wrong.

“It’s the least I can do, my dear,” Aziraphale stood and reached for him. “Just let me-,”

“No!” Crowley took another step back, and Aziraphale could see the anger in his eyes, in the clench of his jaw. He knew it wasn’t for him, and his suspicions were confirmed when Crowley continued softly, “I already took too much from you.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you mean,” Aziraphale let out an exasperated breath, then sat back on the couch, motioning for Crowley to do the same. After a moment he complied, too tired and cold to stand away for very long.

“Would you like to explain, dear?” Aziraphale asked softly when Crowley had settled back down next to him. They weren’t huddled together like they had been, but it was far better than standing at a distance. For a few breaths of silence, Aziraphale thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but then he sighed, seeming to give up on a train of thought.

“You weren’t breathing,” Crowley started simply, then paused, trying to gather the words before he continued into what would have been a wreck of a sentence. “You trusted me with, with _everything, _and I wasn’t going use your, your _grace, _wasn’t going to use you. I really wasn’t, but I- Well I wasn’t in the best of shape after Gabriel.”

And the way he said it, like a lie, like a confession, Aziraphale was sure that “not in the best shape” meant Crowley would be dead right now.

“But you were so _cold, _and you weren’t breathing, and you needed your power back, and- and I used it on myself. It wouldn’t _go _otherwise. I tried to give it back, I swear I did, but I- I was sucking it in. Like a black hole. I didn’t mean to. I never would’ve- Not on purpose. The books were one thing. That- that was for you. But for myself I-,”

“Do you honestly think I would prefer the books to having you safe?” Aziraphale broke in, sounding near tears, near fury, and Crowley blanched.

“No,” he comforted immediately. “No, I- of course you wouldn’t. That’s not my point.” His eyes flickered away, then immediately back to Aziraphale’s. “My point is it was selfish. It was a breach of trust, and it put you in danger, and it wasn’t worth it. And I’m sorry.”

“You are worth everything,” Aziraphale whispered, looking hurt, lost, eyes pleading as if he wanted something, but Crowley couldn’t parse what. “Crowley, why would you keep yourself in pain when I could help? I want to help. And while we’re at it, why, in the name of all that is- that is human, why would you ever offer to trade yourself for me like you did?”

“How could I not? Angel, I-,_” _he choked off the admission. He was too tired for this conversation, drained and aching, guard too low to keep the yearning, wild, selfish thing inside of him in check. But Aziraphale only raised his hand to cradle his face, and Crowley pulled in a gentle breath as he felt the angel’s trembling fingers on his cheek.

“Oh, my darling. You don’t _need _to. And you certainly don’t need to bear pain for my sake.”

And Crowley would have protested the rolling waves of healing that cooled the throbbing pain on his back and knitted together the burning, open skin, a gentle, easy healing that left him feeling calm and a little bit tired. He would have protested, but Aziraphale’s hand was on his cheek, and his eyes took up the whole of his vision, and Crowley couldn’t speak when his lips were only a breath away.

“You aren’t going to take too much from me, Crowley,” he murmured, hurt look still heavy in his eyes, _wanting _still heavy in his voice. “You couldn’t possibly. Do you have any idea how precious you are to me?”

“I-,” Crowley choked, then swallowed and tried again. “You _trusted _me with- with-,”

“I _trust _you, Crowley,” Aziraphale corrected. “I trust you with all of me. I should have spoken more plainly a long time ago. I trust you with my life.” He kissed the top of Crowley’s head gently, punctuating each phrase. “I trust you with my grace.” His temple. “I trust you with my heart.” His cheek. “I trust you with my love.” His lips. A warm, tender thing that felt more like healing than any miracle ever had. And Crowley received it with a whimper, then returned it with a sigh, bringing his hands up to rest carefully on the angel’s soft sides, wanting to feel the weight of him. The reality of him.

They parted, a breath of space between them as they relaxed against each other, warm enough without the blankets.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “You could never take too much from me. Could never take anything, in fact. You already have it all.”

“And you have me, angel,” Crowley said without hesitation, chasing another kiss, but Aziraphale leaned away from it just enough that Crowley paused, hanging on the air between them.

“And I would like to keep you, if I may be so bold,” Aziraphale told him firmly. “So I would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from trying to sacrifice yourself for me in the future.”

“_Me?” _Crowley protested. “_You’re _the one who-,”

Aziraphale silenced him with a quick kiss that melted into mostly a meeting of soft smiles.

“Hush now,” Aziraphale chided.

“That’s a dirty trick,” but Crowley sounded proud. “And it’s not going to work every-,”

Aziraphale tilted his head and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth, not preventing him from speaking, but still Crowley stopped, breath hitching as he felt his lips make contact. He groaned and leaned farther into Aziraphale, trying to get closer, resting their foreheads together.

“You were saying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @caffeinefire on tumblr  
That's all, folks!  
Thank you everyone for reading!! This was a monster of a chapter, and compared to everything I've written before, an absolute beast of a fic. Every comment, bookmark, and kudos means so much!  
I hope you all enjoyed and I hope to write more soon! <3 <3 <3


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